Another Cup of Coffee
by The Goddess Aurora
Summary: He likes his coffee black, and she likes bubblegum flavored toothpaste. Shower smut, first person POV. DeanOFC.


_Disclaimer: The story is mine but Dean, Sam, and anything else you're familiar with cannot be credited to me. _

_Another Cup of Coffee_

These motel beds have to be bad for my back. I wake up feeling like a rheumatic grandma everyday, and I'm hardly old enough to be cast in _that_ role. These motels make me feel like Goldilocks—always this one is too hard or this one is too soft. Unfortunately, there is never one that's 'just right'—especially not when you're staying in a motel that can't even afford a new neon sign to replace the partially burnt out and flickering one that stands out front.

Not that I'm complaining because, you know even the worst bed in the world—I'm talking a burlap bag stuffed with nails and shards of glass—couldn't make this bad. Okay, that's a gross exaggeration, but the heavy weight at my back is warm and alive--and making a noise that could probably be considered a snore—and I love it. It's not just the intimacy but something deeper, trust. In our line of work, you don't just trust anyone, especially not enough to sleep with them. Sex is casual, you don't form attachments, you don't form bonds. Sleeping with someone, sharing space and letting your guard down, it doesn't get more personal than that. My grandpa always said that a hunter can't afford to let people get too close because they just make it harder to do what has to be done. Dean and I don't have that problem – we know that the job comes first; we have the same work ethic, if not the same sleep patterns.

It's not very often that I'm the one up first. He's like a farmer, up at the crack of dawn and getting ready for the day. Me? It takes serious effort and sometimes downright coercion to get me out of bed before ten. Usually I'll be lying there watching him through bleary eyes as he runs around getting ready for work; gathering knives, checking guns for bullets, and making sure we have plenty of rock salt.

Statistics show that at my age I need at least eight hours of sleep. I don't get that anymore, I'm usually working late or playing even later. Another one of my grandpa's philosophies—work hard, play harder—we'd finish up ridding some one-horse town of the most recent ghoulie and then we'd go fishing or we'd head to the closest arcade. The hours don't really bother me, what sleep I miss at night I make up for in the back of the Impala during the day because scenery really isn't that interesting. I almost worry about it sometimes, we stay up pretty late most nights—watching TV (Dean is a total junkie), researching cases, and trying to wake the neighbors with a few rounds of one on one—and he's always the one who takes the first shift driving. He hasn't fallen asleep at the wheel yet though, so I guess it's an unfounded anxiety.

I roll out from beneath the covers, stretching my back as I sit up. There's a wicked cramp in my spine, but I push the pain away and move to stand. If I'm up I might as well get ready to go. I find myself glancing back at the bed forlornly—looking at the soft line of his back, wishing I could just crawl back in and wrap myself around him. I quickly divert my gaze before I can give in to the temptation, moving to the mini-coffee pot on the dresser and ripping open the provided package with my teeth. I won't touch the stuff, but Dean just isn't human without at least one cup of Joe in the morning, and even bad motel coffee is better than a grumpy Winchester.

I flick the switch and listen for signs of percolation before stumbling into the bathroom to brush my teeth. My eyes in the morning are strangely brighter, clearer, somehow—a glossy amber surrounded by dark lashes. In a few hours they'll be back to their natural hue, the exotic color of a melted Hershey bar. I blink at my reflection and rub the small grains of sleep from the corners before digging in the small bag on the counter for my toothbrush and toothpaste. Dean hates my toothpaste, says toothpaste should never be bubblegum flavored, should be minty. He doesn't think it's _natural_ – personally I think he doesn't like it because he's never bothered to try it. He brushes his teeth religiously everyday, usually badmouthing my toothpaste around the stem of his own Colgate toothbrush. It's probably a good thing he does otherwise he'd probably have coffee stains worse than my grandpa, and I can handle a few mild insults if it means his pearly whites stay pearly white.

I take care of my need for dental hygiene before moving back into the bedroom. Hazel eyes are blinking at me sleepily from the bed as I cross to the bedside table to grab my hair-tie. I pull my russet mop back away from my face and sit on my side of the bed at the same time, studying the note from Sam propped against the beige phone. Suddenly I feel rough stubble against my neck, puffs of air making my spine tingle. He yawns loudly into my skin before resting his chin on my shoulder.

"I made you some coffee." He '_hmms'_ in response, wrapping his arms around my stomach and pulling me back into his chest. Neither of us are cuddlers in our sleep, both of us like our space, maybe that's why his displays of affection during the day still surprise me. The first time he held my hand in public I was so surprised I ran into a light pole (definitely not my proudest moment).

He presses a slightly wet kiss to my cheek before he pulls away slowly; I feel the bed shift behind me as he moves to stand. I turn my head to watch him as he pours coffee into one of the Styrofoam cups provided.

He likes it black; I can barely choke it down after three heaping spoons of sugar and a lot of cream. He says that's why I have so much trouble getting motivated in the morning—I don't drink the bitter brew. I say if he wants someone who is excessively hyper then he should find a high school cheerleader.

_How he can swallow that stuff without burning his tongue?_ I wonder as I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows down the beverage. I realize I'm staring at him—he hates that—and turn my gaze to the threadbare grey carpet beneath my bare feet. I study the shape of my toes and the small patches of clear paint still clinging to my toenails. Usually I paint them in vibrant reds, blues, and greens—it took me forever to find a shade of green that wasn't neon—but I was in a rush last time and if the clear gets on my toes no one but me knows about it. I remember the last argument I had with Sam was about his feet, he's so neat about everything else but the man has hobbit feet. Dean thought it was hilarious, sitting on the bed watching as we argued about the causes of foot fungi. Dean fortunately takes care of his feet; they're still guy feet—which means they don't quite pass my particular standards—but the toenails are short and reasonably clean.

I should get dressed so we can get back on the road, but first I need a shower.

I stand up and head back towards the bathroom. Dean stops me with strong, thick fingers curling hot around my bicep, reeling me in like fish on a line. I smile, tilt my head backwards and brush my mouth against his. This is the only way I actually _like_ coffee, secondhand. It causes bad breath, but the full flavor combined with the sleepy and rich taste of his mouth is familiar. His hair is soft beneath my hands—gel-free, the way I like it—and his lips are silken beneath my own. We kiss as if we have the whole morning to ourselves; the movement of our lips, the sweeps of our tongues, and the soft whooshes of breath are all deliberate and unhurried.

Pulling back, he grins cockily—or, well, he tries. Mostly he just looks half-awake. Nonetheless, the look in his eyes and the attempt are genuine, so I kiss him quickly once more before I disappear into the bathroom. I have a good five minutes if I hurry, so I close the door and strip, pull the tie out of my hair and get in the shower before the water is even hot. I still have shampoo in my hair when I hear the door open. I bite my lip in anticipation and duck under the weak spray and rinse the rest of the suds out.

Though I expect it, my skin jumps when his fingertips glide down my spine. Even the scorching water can't compare to the searing heat of his hand as it settles on my hip.

"What took you so long?" I blink against the water and taste the chlorine as it runs into my mouth. I slide an arm around his neck, dragging him into the water with me.

"I had to finish my coffee," he murmurs. I don't get a chance to comment because his mouth is firm and my thought processes are redirected. His hand is at the back of my head searching for a grip in the slick mass of my hair, his other sweeping along my shoulder, brushing away the dark tresses clinging stubbornly to the curve of my neck. Then his lips are there, scalding hot on my skin, sucking and leaving a trail of scarlet marks in their wake; white teeth biting lightly, aggravating the fire beneath my skin. My own hand is moving smoothly across his back; pushing along the firm muscles and tracing the silken scars, reacquainting myself with the dip of his spine, the curve of his shoulder blade, and the vulnerable skin just below his waistline.

He doesn't try to pick me up—not when we're both wet and I'm still slick with soap; he just crowds my body against the wall. I arch involuntarily away from the cold tile, pressing closer to the burning heat of his body. He's laughing against my throat, but I ignore it and nip his ear. His head comes up and our eyes meet. I can see the reflection of my eyes in his, a layering of green and brown, the image of the moon on a lake. His hair is flat on his forehead and there is a drop of water running down his nose. He wrinkles it when I kiss the tip and I contemplate licking it for a second or two. Dean looks down at me speculatively, one eyebrow hitched high on his forehead and a roguish gleam in his eyes. I grin unrepentant and slip my leg around his hip. His rough hand clutches my thigh; his grip is so tight I think every individual ridge of his fingerprints is going to be permanently impressed upon my skin—then there's nothing but slow wet friction. The frigid temperature of the ceramic at my back fades into the background and my concentration focuses solely on the man pressing his forehead into my neck and the rhythm of our bodies.

Leaning my head back against the wall, I notice the big brown water spot spread across the cracked beige ceiling like a coffee stain on a counter top. I'm breathing raggedly and moaning as his hips jerk sharply upwards. My head lowers, lips seeking his, but his head is bent—breath fanning across the sensitive flesh of my left breast—I press my lips to his temple instead. From this angle, I can see the arch of his back, muscles tense and shifting as his hips move. My vision becomes unfocused and the water sliding down his spine in rivulets bleeds with the color of the tile, a shimmering peach. My mouth is moving—releasing soft whimpers, interrupted moans, and random half-words that barely manage to escape in monosyllabic strangled noises. Though it doesn't register in my muddled mind, I know for a fact I managed to say his name at least once—he only groans _that_ way when I do—but beyond that I could have been speaking Latin.

My skin is prickling like it's raining needles and I realize that the water is now freezing cold. I pull Dean closer because he's warm, and because I might fall over without him, never mind the fact that my tugging has him pressed even closer to me or that, that closeness has driven him even deeper. He groans incoherently, or maybe that's me; and then my muscles are clenching from my jaw to the tips of my toes—it's just this side of painful. We're panting together, his breath is warm on my oversensitive skin, and I feel like I just ran a marathon. I'm biting on my lip to keep the hysterical laughter in and the dazed smile from spreading across the rest of my face. My heart is trying to break free from my chest, dancing a wild, out of rhythm staccato beneath my ribs, and I'm shaking slightly. I take a deep breath and release it—try and convince myself that it isn't a breathy sigh—and place a series of kisses following his jaw line. I lean back on the wall to relieve some of the weight; it doesn't seem fair to make him support me when he's post-orgasmic, God knows I can barely stand on my own without anyone resting on me.

I'm sliding my fingers through his hair and staring at the showerhead when he kisses me beneath my chin. I lower my head and take in the flushed wet skin, sparkling jade eyes, and the perfect bow of his lips. I blush when he lowers my leg and his body moves away from mine, my arms fall to my sides feeling heavy and strangely vacant. He fiddles with the knobs jutting from the front of the stall—his back is stiff beneath the cold water and I can see the slight twitching of his nerves in response—until the stream of water is marginally warmer. Then he's dragging me towards him. I grab the soap and he has the bottle of conditioner. His fingers are buried in my hair before I can blink, and despite their size, his hands are far gentler than my own. I sigh in contentment as he massages the sweet smelling liquid into my hair. The miniature bar of motel soap leaves a trail of white bubbles across his chest as it moves in uneven circles.

Moments later, he's striding out into the bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel and a self-satisfied smile. I'm bravely trying to keep my own towel wrapped around me—even though I know trying to cover both my upper and lower body simultaneously with the small rectangle of terrycloth is futile—peeking around the door for Sam. When I assure myself that the room is Sam-free, I race to my duffel and grab the first set of clothes that match before scurrying back into the bathroom. I can hear the smug asshole's laughter through the thin door and my eyes narrow as I slip on my underwear.

So I'm not comfortable being naked, not like it's a crime. Just because he could live happily on nudist beach doesn't mean that _I'm_ the weird one.

I walk back out dressed and ready to go—Sam still isn't back. I pull my hair up to keep it from soaking the back of my shirt and tie it into a ponytail. I watch Dean in my peripheral vision as he lifts the motel mattress and pulls out his huge knife. He quit tucking it under his pillow after it cut me when we were making out – it was barely a flesh wound but there's no arguing with him. And…wait, making out? Is it possible to sound anymore like an inexperienced teenager?

Dean is all business as he tucks away his clothing and his weapons. I pack up the toiletries—laughing internally when I see my toothpaste tube, decorated with shiny multicolored stars and cartoon characters, lying next to Dean's plain white tube—and then throw my pajamas in the laundry bag with his. Sam comes in the door while I'm zipping up my black duffel and Dean's doing a run-through to make sure nothing has been left behind.

Sam relaxes against the doorframe and studies us as we finish everything. I toss the coffee wrapper in the trash and look at the empty pot. He really wasn't kidding about finishing the coffee. Dean starts humming as he moves out of the room, his jacket thrown over one shoulder and his own bag hanging at his side.

"Come on Sam, I'm starving. And I could really use another cup of coffee."

Inspired marginally by the song "Another Cup of Coffee" by Mike and the Mechanics, but kind of not.

I'd like to take the time to thank my lovely beta **feralpixc **because without her this would not be as amazing as it is. She probably deserves a co-author credit, but she wouldn't like that. So instead, major hugs for her brilliant mind and the promise that I'll write more soon. XP


End file.
